The Witch Narratives: Reincarnation (Land of Enchantment Trilogy Series BOOK 1) by Belinda Vasquez Garcia

Author:Belinda Vasquez Garcia [Garcia, Belinda Vasquez]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Magic Prose Press
Published: 2012-02-19T00:00:00+00:00

27

Due to her curse, Salia could not travel to the theatres in Albuquerque, nor Santa Fe, nor San Francisco, nor New York City, nor Europe, but the theatre had come to her. Here. In Madrid.

She spied through the window of the opera house. Inside was glorious with such soft carpet, her moccasins squished. The stage had purple velvet curtains with gold tassels. The seats were red velvet, fit for a queen.

On stage, the actors rehearsed for a play in two days, which was to be followed by the Christmas dance at the Impatient Amusement Hall where a small band from Santa Fe was to perform.

She closed her eyes, dancing in a circle until she grew warm.

She put both fists on her hips, glaring at the window. She earlier tried both front and back doors, but they were locked against her. All she wanted to do was crouch in the alley around the front of the stage where the lights were controlled. From there, up close, she could observe the actors and director, and smell the drama enfolding.

She knew every nook and cranny of the theatre, as well as she knew her house. She haunted this site since last winter when she heard they were building a live theatre, and even slept on the wooden floor when the theatre was just a shell. She stared at the stars from that floor and dared to dream.

She now pounded the doors and screamed at the manager, “Pierre, let me in!” but he ignored her.

She marched to the back of the building and found a boulder that was not too heavy. She stood back from the window, hefting the boulder to her chest. She was about to hurl the boulder at the window…

“Miss Esperanza?”

She dropped the boulder, nearly hitting her foot. “Patrón Stuwart?” she gulped.

“Have I interrupted something?” he said, bowing mockingly.

She stood with one moccasin on top of the other, tongue-tied for what seemed forever. Finally, she squeaked out, “What are you doing in the back of the theatre, Patrón?”

“I own this theatre, Miss Esperanza,” he said, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall. He stuck a polished boot out in which she could see her vague reflection. Her face appeared misshaped. She stepped back, fearful of a boot reflecting how she looked to others, an odd-looking young woman, who never fit in. She was still clothed in the same skirt she wore at her trial, but her skirt was washed and the rip poorly mended. Her shiny hair was neatly combed and pulled back from her scrubbed face with a blue ribbon.

“I must say you’re looking better, Miss Esperanza than when I last laid eyes on you.” He smiled foolishly at her with glowing admiration in his blue eyes. “How are you this fine morning?”

“I am doing very well. Today, the birds sing for me.”

He frowned at the leafless trees and the vultures cawing from their branches. “When you smile, Miss Esperanza, your dimples light up the coalblack winter of Madrid.”

She blushed.

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